The Magnate's Manifesto(21)

The only thing that was messing with his superior mood was the email he’d gotten from his head of IT earlier this morning about the leak of his manifesto. It had literally stopped him in his tracks to discover after a cyber-chase of epic proportions, the email hack had been traced to the servers of Craig International. Which could only mean that Michael Craig, one of his most vocal critics on the Stone Industries board, was behind it. Had meant to bury him at a time of weakness. And for that, he decided, mouth set, stomach hard, as he went outside in search of Bailey, he would pay richly. He had never liked or trusted Michael Craig, had never felt they were playing on the same team. He would use this opportunity to get rid of him.

A growl escaped his throat as he headed toward the ocean-side terrace. You didn’t mess with a man’s lifeblood. That was way, way over the line.

He found Bailey on the terrace in a sun chair, laptop on her thighs, eyes closed, face turned up to the sun. Davide had gone on about how much he liked her on the drive to Nice. Not surprising after last night, but what had caught him off guard was that the collector of women, who’d lost his wife to illness at forty-five, had been focused not on Bailey’s looks, but on her intelligence. Her creativity. He loved her—that much was obvious.

His mouth twisted as he surveyed her deceptively relaxed pose on the lounger, long legs kicked out in front of her. He had no doubt her mind was going a mile a minute under those closed lids. That she wasn’t sleeping but strategizing. And a sour feeling tugged at his gut. He’d sidelined her. Put her aside as a problem he didn’t have time to deal with when it was his attraction to her that had been the issue all along. It wasn’t like him to put the personal before business, and he hated that he had.

She opened her eyes, the wariness he’d witnessed this morning making a reappearance. “Did you have a good trip?”

“I did.” He sank into the chair opposite her and poured himself a glass of her mineral water. “I owe you an apology.”

Her eyes rounded. “For what?”

“For underestimating you. For letting you languish in a role that was beneath you.”

She pushed herself up in the chair, her gaze meeting his. “We haven’t done the presentation yet.”

“I’ve seen your ideas.” He took a long swallow of the water and sat back, resting the glass on his thigh. “I was wrong about you. I should have given you a voice.” He lifted his shoulders. “Maybe you were right last night. Maybe my judgment has been off. It’s been a David-and-Goliath battle with the board.”

She pushed her finger into her cheek, a slow smile curving her lips. “I think I’m just going to say thank you and leave it at that. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

A wry smile edged his mouth. “As a matter of fact, I am. You got me thinking last night. In a good way.”

A frown marred her brow. “I might have been a bit harsh.”

He shrugged. “I needed to hear it. I haven’t had any time to think lately, and that’s when I get myself into trouble.”

She pointed toward her computer screen. “Want to see my slides?”

He nodded. “I’ve heard Alexander is a stickler for detail. He likes to wade into the minutiae—a bit of a control freak. So I want to ensure all our ducks are in order.”

They went through the slides. He loved the way she’d laid them out, made a few suggestions of his own, and in a feat that could be classified as the eighth wonder of the world, they did a perfect run-through.

Satisfied the presentation was as smooth and as flawless as it was going to get, he challenged Bailey to a tennis game. She wasn’t half bad. What she lacked in skill, she made up for in determination. Which seemed to be her modus operandi. She’d used the incredibly sharp brain she’d been born with, worked brutally hard and taken herself places.

He studied her as he waited for her to serve, concentration written across her face. Pictured her slugging it out at the local café, serving coffee all evening to put herself through school. Selling fifty pairs of shoes a day at the local mall to secure her future. And he couldn’t help but admire her.

There was a lot of substance to Bailey St. John.



Bailey was still on a high when she pulled on white capri jeans, a body-hugging tank and a gauzy sheer blouse over it for their dinner at sea. Alexander Gagnon, Maison Electronique’s director of international development and soon-to-be CEO, had flown in by helicopter while she’d been showering, the whir of the blades deafening as he’d touched down with two of Maison’s other senior marketing staff. Tonight they would get to know the three executives over dinner on Davide’s yacht, in a trip up the coast to Cannes. And tomorrow they would present their ideas to the group.